


Pillow Principality

by Luxuriant



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bodily Fluids, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Food Metaphors, Intersex, Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other, Scent Kink, Scenting, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, but I can't see this appealing to anyone searching tags for that, not the term I’d use but seems to be the tag, there's some fantasy about penetrative sex but it's pretty damn outercoursey, they both also have penises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-13 07:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luxuriant/pseuds/Luxuriant
Summary: I know what you smell like.(Aziraphale leaves traces on a pillow. Crowley is intrigued. Later on they talk.)





	1. The Base

**Author's Note:**

> Any unusual interpretations of what an Effort is found in this fic are for contrarian purposes only and not supported by any text. I’m well aware of what a pillow princess actually is but couldn’t resist the joke.
> 
> He/him pronouns used throughout, but not binary genders or dyadic sexes.
> 
> Thanks go to sylveondreams for looking through this, and Ash as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a content note for this chapter, there’s a brief mention of Crowley having sex with someone who isn’t Aziraphale if that’s not your bag.

Aziraphale had a bed. It wasn’t a vast expanse of dark sheets like the one at Crowley’s flat, far from it, but the small room — the small _ bedroom _— above the bookshop couldn’t have fitted anything bigger than a double. 

The mattress creaked as Crowley shifted on it, and he felt ancient springs under his weight. Apparently the bed had been bought some time in the 19th century, which explained why Crowley had never seen it. It had ornately carved bedposts that Crowley didn’t care to examine in detail and a duvet in some sort of pale gold textured fabric Crowley registered primarily as ‘ugly.’

It was kind of lumpy, enough that Crowley would have gotten up from it if he hadn’t caught a faint whiff of something, around where the pillows were. 

Aziraphale had too many of those, the hedonist. He probably buried himself in them with a book, like a nesting bird. That had to be why the bed smelled of him when Crowley _ knew _ Aziraphale didn’t sleep.

It was an old Aziraphale smell, not the new cologne, and it had settled deep. Been reapplied too, Crowley could trace the smell back in time if he shifted his tongue and added a specific organ to the roof of his mouth. Every so often, Aziraphale came up here and put his smell on the bed. 

Crowley scrambled closer to the stack of pillows, taking a long inhale.

These smelled like Aziraphale’s hair. He used shampoo regularly, so there was a floral overlay from that. Distracting like the cologne Aziraphale insisted on wearing, covering up both the human body and the angelic something or other that lived in it.

Crowley hadn’t ever gotten much of a whiff of those pale curls beyond the stupid beauty products, but he knew this had to be them. All soft and clean, enough to make him open his mouth so the delicate smell could sit on his tongue. 

There was another smell, too. Not too-human sweat, or washing powder, or that horrible fabric softener Crowley was relieved Aziraphale didn’t use. Not even ethereal feathers, easily confused with regular bird down, or the lightning-ozone of angelic power. 

This was a wetter smell, a smell of _salt-musk-animal-copper-acid-chlorine_. Crowley’s snake tongue darted out just beyond the edge of his lips. He hadn’t smelled this on Aziraphale before, though it was a bit like the sweat he caught sometimes when the angel was nervous.

Angels didn’t need to sweat. They didn’t need to eat either, but Aziraphale was always so determined to be embodied. 

Snakes weren’t prone to analysis. All Crowley’s tongue wanted was to find the source, and he tossed a few pillows down the bed, kicking at them until they fell on the floor.

Stupid fluffy things, he was going to have to introduce Aziraphale to memory foam. 

One of the pillows drew his hand to it. The cover was silk, not the same high thread count cotton as the rest, and it was a firmer thing under it too. When Crowley lifted it to his face, the smell was stronger, so strong he could taste it, and it was delicious_._

It was concentrated on the edge of the pillow, for some reason. It wasn’t drool, that didn’t have this overtone of sweat, and didn’t leave a hunger deep in Crowley’s belly.

It was familiar, though. He’d tasted something like it before, had it dampen his chin and stick to his fingers. He'd been under skirts then, cloth shielding him from view; he remembered the shelter of it.

_ Oh. _He'd read somewhere that smell had a more direct, primal link to memory than other senses. Seemed like that worked for demons too.

Well, that memory explained the heat in him. He wasn’t _hungry_. 

The thing was, aside from the shock that Aziraphale’s body made this at all, it was unexpected on a pillow. 

Crowley had one of the finest imaginations in Hell, and although that wasn’t saying much, it normally sufficed. 

Holding the pillow to his face, he took another breath of it. There was a bit of a clean powdery monotony that shouldn’t dare overshadow the smell of Aziraphale’s slick, and some of his hand cream further along where the cunt scent wasn’t. A few loose threads too, and wasn’t that a thought. Aziraphale’s soft hands and manicured nails would have to grip hard to do any damage.

There was a noise from downstairs, and a clear fussy voice calling up towards him with no clue whatsoever what was happening in the bedroom. No clue that Crowley’s nose was pressed deep enough into the damn pillow that he couldn’t breathe fresh air. 

As suddenly as he’d grabbed the thing, Crowley threw it aside and got off the bed. A snap of long fingers was all it took to return all the bedding to its previous scattered state.

* * *

It was inevitable that Crowley took to his own bed that evening. Aziraphale had been hurt when he’d turned down dinner, but Crowley couldn’t stop picturing the way he looked eating and wondering if he made the same face when he let his cunt soak a pastel pink silk pillow.

Would his little cock get hard too? Angels were made before She invented a separation of sex,[*] a kind of trial run for genitals. The bit that became Adam’s was usually small in comparison, barely thumb sized, and every time Crowley had seen an angel naked, it sat uselessly at the peak of folds of flesh. 

He liked the thought of Aziraphale’s cock standing proud, flush with blood and stiff_._ It would rise up so those lips hung as lurid, tempting banners. They’d be red too, and Aziraphale might smear the wetness dripping from him over them, over the bare, rounded head of his cock as it peeked out from under the skin.

But he didn’t hold it between his fingers, did he? Not if Crowley had the pillow thing right. Past caring about his dignity, Crowley shed the skin of his underwear and played with the slim labia he found there, finding a bit of slickness as he delved under the outermost parts.

He brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them. It wasn’t a bad taste, but nor did it make him _ want _like a stale puff of Aziraphale’s had, so he wiped his hand on a tissue and conjured up a pillow instead. 

At least it was black, not soft pink that would look so pale compared to a swollen red cunt. Stuffing it between his legs didn’t do much for Crowley, though. The silk was cold where he was hot, and he didn’t like the contrast very much. 

He tried grinding up into it anyway, and no, that wasn’t any better. He wasn’t wet enough to ease the friction, and wasn’t it an interesting thought that Aziraphale could work himself up so much that he was_. _ That Aziraphale had decided to let his cunt drip like a damn faucet.

Well, lack of interest wasn’t Crowley’s problem. It was simply that the scent wasn’t there to make him want as hard as he had in Aziraphale’s bedroom, or to trigger the biological response he’d been having then. Didn’t help that he’d never done it like this before, his body didn’t know what to do.

He rolled over, switching from his back to his belly and feeling rather snake-like for it. Crawly still wasn’t his favourite state.

Still, rubbing against the silky pillow clamped between his thighs was better like this. Crowley’s hips had better leverage, and he could hold it with one hand while he propped himself up with the other. His impulse was to shove a thumb deep inside his cunt and play with the other hole beneath with two fingers, that was more his speed, but it wouldn’t help him understand what _ Aziraphale _did.

Fuck, he wanted to be so damn sure of what Aziraphale did.

The thought of Aziraphale in this position helped. He’d be naked, all the heaving curves of him, and sweaty with the effort of thrusting forwards. He’d flush all rosy pink, colour down his neck and back as well as streaking across his hidden face. His arse would probably shake and dimple, while the heavy outer lips of his cunt opened up under his fingers so the heated inner flesh could meet silk cloth. 

Crowley did the same, aware that his cock was usually exposed thanks to a mound as skinny as the rest of him, not buried under lovely layers of skin. Maybe that made Aziraphale sensitive, and that was why he liked this enough to leave so many layers of scent.

That was a nice thought, that Aziraphale would be hypersensitive. Would hold himself back from doing this until he _ had _ to. He’d rubbed off on the pillow … how long ago? Crowley hoped it was months between, that Aziraphale usually denied himself until he broke and this little ritual was all he needed.

A growl rose from Crowley’s throat, and he pushed down harder onto the pillow, crushing it into the mattress under him. It wasn’t enough friction, he had to grasp the thing with his hand so it was only the silk cover around his cock and rub that way until his body twitched and throbbed for him. 

Once he had the technique right, Crowley came quickly, pressing his fingers inside his hole as he did so he could feel it clench tight around them. Maybe Aziraphale didn’t do that, but he did. 

Boneless and lazy on his sheets, he didn’t bother to send the pillow away.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Separate for some. Brother Snail and Sister Slug might object to Aziraphale’s choice of terms, as would some humans. As far as Crowley was concerned, sex being split into male and female was about as interesting as morality being split into good and evil. It left all the fun bits out. For some no doubt ineffable reason, She did seem to like Her binaries.[return to text]


	2. The Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley fesses up, and it goes quite well for him. They've started a sexual relationship previous to this but it's in the awkward early stages.
> 
> There are some references to Aziraphale feeling ambivalent about his body here, but no shaming or negativity. Also very mild references to anal play I didn't feel were featured enough to be worth tagging. This may be difficult to read at first if you have problems with second-hand embarrassment, but the issue is a misunderstanding.
> 
> There are probably some book influences on how I write Aziraphale but this still owes most of how it is to the show. A lot of questionable antiquated word use because this is, in a limited way, Aziraphale PoV.
> 
> Thanks go to the folks on Discord who supported this, especially NUKE, menace and sylveon. DAzebras was kind enough to do some editing and is also much appreciated. Any remaining errors are all mine.

“You smelled me,” Aziraphale repeated. He crossed his legs like he might conceal his traitorous equipment from Crowley, because _ apparently _ he stank. Or his secretions did. Thankfully they weren’t an issue when Crowley was telling him he left great patches of scent when he … This was unbearable.

Crowley, for his part, had an eyebrow quirked and his mouth screwed into puzzlement.

“Yeah, of course. Told you before I know what you smell like. Why’s it weirder when it’s your cunt?”

Aziraphale actually gasped, and squirmed, looking for a position where he didn’t have to think about his— About that. It was difficult, given that it was attached to him and stubbornly connected to his body’s nervous system.

“Could you please _try _ not to be crude? You’re already telling me I need to make adjustments to my personal hygiene. I don’t need to hear foul language as well.”

“When did I say the hygiene stuff?” Crowley asked rhetorically. “I don’t remember saying that."

“You said, and I quote, that the last time you were in my bedroom, you ‘smelled,'" Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, "'lubrication all over that pillow.’ Then you pointed to a pillow I’m absolutely certain I wash regularly.” It was sitting on the bed alongside a hastily abandoned book, and Aziraphale wondered if he shouldn’t keep it in a drawer or something. Perhaps send it away and hope it ended up falling into the sun.

Then he’d be out a very convenient pillow, though, and wouldn’t that be a shame.

Crowley made what Aziraphale could only describe as a Noise. “I said slick, angel. Lubrication’s not a sexy word.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not! Too many syllables. All ambiguous too. Could mean what you get in a tube at Boots.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that other demons had called Crowley slick sometimes, so surely that wasn’t any less ambiguous, and then rewound the conversation. “Are we trying to use sexy words?” It wouldn't be the first time, but it did still have a newness about it for them.

Crowley stalked over to him, planting himself on the side of the bed right next to Aziraphale, so their thighs were touching. Aziraphale could feel the heat of Crowley's skin through his trousers. He should have edged away, really he should.

He didn’t. His heart was pounding unnecessarily.

“I mean, we could,” said Crowley. “If you wanted.” He made a vague gesture Aziraphale couldn’t determine the meaning of. "That’s what I was going for. Not to tell you to wash yourself.”

“Right. Er, in future, very few people like to be told their … intimate regions smell.”

“Whole stupid industry based on it,” Crowley agreed. “Look, angel, I didn’t mean to say it like it’s a bad thing. Didn’t mean to blurt it out like that at all, honestly.”

“You came in here, saw me reading and accidentally said ‘Oh, hello Aziraphale my friend, I know that pillow you’re propping up your nice copy of _ The Devil’s Cub _ on is a mechanism for self-gratification. It reeks of all the times you’ve …’”

The corners of Crowley’s lips were downturned; he looked downright nonplussed. He also wasn’t moving away, and it was quite awkward to shout at him when they were side-by-side. Aziraphale stopped, sighed and let the righteous indignation flow out of him. “Do you think we could restart this entire conversation?”

Crowley laughed, not cruelly, and peered over at the book for the first time. “Is that really what this is called? You don’t find it a bit on the nose?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Lord save me,” he muttered. It was less mortifying to talk about intimate matters than about his taste in historical romances. He cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts into an explanation. Crowley watched him with an intensity that ought to feel predatory. It was a patient look, one that encouraged Aziraphale to keep going.

Right. They were doing talking, lately. 

“Well, er, what do you want me to say about this? Yes, I have sometimes rubbed myself off on that pillow. It isn’t very dignified of me, but I developed the habit some time in the 19th century when masturbation was a moral crisis and no one gave sensible advice about how to do it. Advice suitable for angels was even thinner on the ground. Since it was the first way I had any success, I grew accustomed and it became the way I could … climax most easily. I’m aware that, of late, you’d satisfy me if only I were to ask.”

“Yeah, I’d satisfy you plenty,” agreed Crowley, with a crooked grin. His hand was suddenly on Aziraphale’s knee, resting just lightly. He was now making his serious face, which ought to be worrying but wasn’t. “What I was trying to say was, I thought it was hot. Smell’s special, you know, even if you don’t have what I’ve got. I got a real lungful of you and it was such a turn-on. You have no idea. I didn’t want to be here and not tell you, like it was a big secret. I don’t like having secrets from you.”

Despite all sense, Aziraphale felt a warmth rise in his chest. “You, ah, also pleasured yourself, didn’t you?” he asked. There was the faintest smile playing about his lips, only slightly undercut by his blushing. If he wasn’t mistaken, he did recall an evening when Crowley had been upstairs and suddenly desperate to be out of the bookshop. It had been worrying at the time.

“Yup. I ‘pleasured myself.’” Crowley’s repetition was plummy as a jar of jam. Mocking, but not heated. “Not here, or with your pillow — that didn’t feel right — but I did later. Tried to figure out what you did. Wasn’t how I like doing it, but a wank’s a wank. Used to wank to you all the time.”

“Used to?” Aziraphale couldn’t help the disappointment in his voice, really he couldn’t.

Crowley just stared at him.

“I— now that I know you weren’t making a complaint, I’m flattered. I like the thought of you hot for me, as it were. I like the thought that I smell good to you.” Aziraphale’s eyes were downcast, heavy lidded, and he uncrossed his legs primly, knocking Crowley’s hand off his knee.

Crowley swallowed. “Huh. We’re doing great at this communication thing, aren’t we?”

“Oh, splendidly.”

“You’re still a tease.”

Aziraphale, emboldened, plucked the pillow up and held it in front of Crowley’s nose.

“Do you think so? I’m afraid that’s not what I thought you were going to say to me.”

“You’re proving my point,” Crowley complained, but his nostrils were flaring.

“You’re the one who won’t ask for it,” replied Aziraphale. “You do want to smell it again, don’t you? It’s right here.”

And oh, the tip of Crowley’s tongue was out, split in two prongs. It was a mere moment before he wrenched the pillow from Aziraphale’s grasp and buried his face in it. Aziraphale watched his chest rise and fall as he took in great breaths.

He made a muffled noise that was probably speech, forced into the silk cover and feather stuffing.

“Don’t even think about biting my pillow! I’ve had it for years,” Aziraphale scolded, and Crowley slapped him with it.

It was a playful strike, hitting Aziraphale in the chest rather than the face, but it did make his heart thump. The offending organ sped up when Crowley dropped the pillow back in Aziraphale’s lap, taking his sunglasses off so Aziraphale could see his lovely blown pupils.

“You know what I want, instead of scenting this? I want to see you use it again. Couldn’t stop thinking about it when I smelled it the first time, wondering what you’d look like. You do it face-down, don’t you? With that arse of yours in the air, I bet you wobble too. Jiggle about like one of those fancy cream desserts you like.”

Aziraphale’s mind was blank. His tongue did the talking for him. “Pannacotta,” he whispered.

Aziraphale undressed himself with an audience. Not for the first time, mind, but Crowley's attention was singular.

Once naked in front of Crowley, he felt rather exposed. Which was the point, of course, but there was such a lot of Aziraphale’s corporation that he couldn’t see the appeal of in the mirror. Crowley, sweet as burnt sugar, liked to hiss that he loved Aziraphale’s thighs, wanted to grab the soft swell of his belly. It was all very embarrassing, and made Aziraphale absolutely wild with arousal.

He didn’t much care to analyse why, and Crowley was indulgent with him.

Aziraphale folded his undershirt with unsteady hands, placing it carefully on the bedside table. Everything else was already put away, in a ritual that Crowley had complained vociferously about and done nothing to prevent.

The bed was ready too. He’d set up the pillows he didn’t sleep on at the head as he liked them, because he had definite plans about the whole thing. Aziraphale would pose the way he always did, the way that felt best.

Prostration was the most accurate word for his favoured position that Aziraphale knew in English. The religious significance couldn't be lost on an angel, but the simple fact remained that it was kind on his knees to have them tucked up under his body. It meant he could move with support from the mattress and from gravity. Supine, Aziraphale got tired too quickly from the effort of thrusting up, and it didn't feel as good.

Dear Oscar wrote that love was a sacrament best taken kneeling. Aziraphale had blushed to read it. Blushed, cried because the passage was a devastation, and wondered if he might have ever brought this up with the dear boy, in a life less treacherous for them both. It was an ugly impulse, wanting to be seen.

He climbed onto the mattress aware he was quite graceless, spreading himself on the bed prone at first before grasping the pillow from its current spot by his elbow and stuffing it under his hips. Arousal was not going to be a problem, but Aziraphale indulged himself by slipping a hand under his chest and pinching his nipples anyway. He liked the bite of it, and the way they pebbled under his fingers.

“I don’t have a good view of that from here,” Crowley said. He’d dragged the chair from the bedroom writing desk up, closer to the foot of the bed than the head, was lounging in it in that way of his like he’d never been taught how sitting worked. Certainly he’d never taken lessons in posture, or cared for the health of his spine.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “It wasn’t _ for _ you.”

“But you do like performing.” Not a question, an absolute certainty. Crowley could be so confident about some things that Aziraphale wanted to deny him.

His body, on the other hand, saw fit to add to the wetness gathering on his labia, in what felt like a flash flood. Aziraphale kept his hips down and his thighs tight, hoping Crowley didn’t see it.

The tongue darting out visibly as Aziraphale craned his neck over his shoulder to check Crowley’s response proved his mistake there. “I can smell you like performing,” Crowley said. “You’re better at this than stage magic.”

“I seem to recall you wanting to make me disappear the last time I did stage magic. Perhaps I’ll disappear now. You’re quite welcome to take the pillow and please yourself.”

“You get so tetchy when you’re like this. When you’re all wound up.” There was wonder in Crowley’s voice; he’d discovered a new continent on the planet that was Aziraphale.

“I get tetchy _with_ _you_ because you’re the one ‘winding me up.’ It just so happens you and this … concupiscent state also correlate,” Aziraphale returned.

“Con-what?”

Aziraphale groaned. Crowley no doubt knew the word, but insisted on mockery.[ * ] “Hush, or I’ll make sure you see and smell nothing.”

“You won’t.” That low, amused tone. Crowley had a hand fitted improbably, miraculously down his tight pants, Aziraphale realised, and the roughness in his voice was because he was making overcomplicated motions inside there. His shoulder worked up and down as he moved the arm. He hadn’t started the show, and Crowley was pleasuring himself. Nonchalantly, as though there was all day to spend on it, but the minor itch did require scratching.

“Lech,” Aziraphale said. It was funny how fond the word sounded. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Guilty as charged,” said Crowley, guiltlessly. He must have seen something in Aziraphale’s face, because he went on. “It’s the anticipation, angel. Sure, I’m going to watch you frig yourself. It’ll be amazing. But right now, it’s like— like the moment when they set a dish in front of you. The best part.”

That heated something in Aziraphale’s blood. He thought to give Crowley a good eyeful so he’d stop being so blessedly silly about all this. That would teach him.

Oh, it _ wouldn’t. _

“You’re saying that on purpose,” Aziraphale breathed. “I _ know _ you, serpent. You want me to prove you wrong.” 

Crowley made a noise like a boiling kettle. Aziraphale left him to that. It served his darling right to be caught.

He tucked his knees up towards his belly, spread his legs just enough and slotted the pillow in place between his knees and calves, so the insides of his thighs pressed into it. It was on its side, squashed up under his bowed, folded body and supporting his raised hips. Aziraphale made sure it was pushed forward enough that Crowley could have as unimpeded a view as possible.

“You can just ask, Crowley. We do that now,” he said. Aziraphale lifted his hips high so he could adjust the pillow angle without it dragging too hard, too soon on him. He needed it just so.

“I changed my mind, you’re _ all _ bastard. Tip to toe.” 

Aziraphale pretended not to hear. On display like an animal, he added to the effect by finally touching a hand to his plump vulva, parting the outer swell with two spread fingers so the inner parts could be seen clearly from Crowley's position. The tip of his phallic aspect grazed the pillow and the hood of it shifted down the shaft as he spread everything else. He could feel how warm he was here, blood-swollen and equally hot on the back of his neck from the pressure of Crowley’s eyes on him.

His labia made an obscene, slippery noise as his fingers moved on them, and Aziraphale bit back a giggle, because it blended very nicely with the noises coming from Crowley’s chair.

“Fuck me,” Crowley said. Not an actual request. Just swearing because he liked to, if Aziraphale was any judge. Awed swearing.

“Oh, another time, certainly,” said Aziraphale. It would be nice to press into Crowley. He thought about it as he folded the pillow in half for a better rub, knowing he was getting fluid on the unmarked parts of it after using his hand to shuck himself open. He thought about sliding in between Crowley's folds, deliberately avoiding fucking further in because this welcoming spot deserved love too, and made an appropriate motion against the silk. Crowley wasn’t as cool as the fabric, which Aziraphale had once wildly imagined could feel like the bare skin of the serpent.

He pushed a finger inside himself, to gather more wetness and ease the way. A beckoning gesture got a string of it to spill, extending like a thread that Aziraphale might have found embarrassing had Crowley not whined at the sight.

It spread over the head of his prick nicely, and that now slid against the pillow as he liked it, his equally rosy labia following. Aziraphale ground his hips against the silk until he felt quite overcome with it. He was dripping onto the fabric, leaving it wet and clingy, and his imagination provided him with the lovely thought that if he rubbed with Crowley, Crowley’s quim would be the same.

Often he’d prolong this, the stage when it all felt just right. Now, he wanted to come for Crowley, whose little noises were audible above the creak of the bedsprings, so Aziraphale locked his thighs into position and thrust into the corner of the folded seam where it surrounded and dragged against his cock. His hips stuttered, his muscles strained to keep the tension up, and he had to grasp the pillow with a hand to keep things steady as he needed.

The peak had him shaking, gasping and _gushing_. His thighs quivered, as did a flushed, dimpled arse that rose and fell with his panting.

The distraction meant he didn’t hear Crowley get up, though he felt the weight on the bed behind him.

He also felt the flat of a broad, human-ish tongue dip into him, pressed over the entrance to his cunt. Crowley was lapping at him, drinking from him.

Aziraphale made a dull moan of protest, squirming, and the tongue immediately stopped, then withdrew from him.

“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself,” Crowley mumbled. His breath was as intense as his tongue had been.

“You know I get sensitive.” Aziraphale relaxed anyway, still face down and enjoying the blissful way his mind slowed down after a little death. It was better when Crowley was there, close to him.

Close, but not … “Did you— Oh, my dear, if you haven’t— Oh, please do keep going. I _ like _ being sensitive.”

Eager Crowley didn’t need to be told twice. The tongue was back, and at some stage skintight trousers must have been miracled away, because the distinct sounds of clever, slicked fingers thrusting into two passages weren’t muffled by them.

It was ever so fascinating that Crowley liked it arseways. When there wasn’t a demonic tongue sloppily feasting on him, Aziraphale might ask about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Crowley did not know it. He was smart enough to guess through context, even distracted by an angelic backside, but refused on principle to miss an opportunity to get a dig in at Aziraphale’s vocabulary.  
[return to text]


End file.
